THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


|HOL«*«OOKCO. 

s.  Kiln  Si. 


BOOKS  IN  PROSE  BY 

ROBERT  BRIDGES 

(DROCH) 

••• 

OVERHEARD  IN  ARCADY 

Dialogues  about  Howells,  James,  Al- 
drich,  Stockton,  Davis,  Crawford,  Kip 
ling,  Meredith,  Stevenson,  Barrie.  Illus 
trated,  Fourth  Edition,  $1.15. 

SUPPRESSED  CHAPTERS, 

AND  OTHER  BOOKISHNESS 

CONTENTS  :  Suppressed  Chapters  —  Ar 
cadian  Letters  —  Novels  that  Everybody 
Read  —  The  Literary  Partition  of  Scot 
land  —  Friends  in  Arcady  —  Arcadian 
Opinions.  Third  Edition,  $1.25. 


Bramble  Brae 


Bramble  Brae 


By 

Robert  Bridges 

(Droch) 


New  York 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  March, 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS 


fca 


€o  mp  jf  artjct 

You  called  the  old  farm  Bramble  Brae, 
And  loved  it  till  your  hair  was  gray 
And  footsteps  faltered  while  you  trod 
The  sloping  upland  bright  with  sod. 
It  blossomed  in  your  quiet  life 
With  go  wans  from  the  Neuk  of  Fife; 
And  while  you  walked  the  waving  wheat 
You  dreamed  of  heather  and  the  peat. 
You've  gane  awa!     My  spirit  yearns 
To  hear  you  read  the  songs  of  Burns; 
The  melody  I've  faintly  caught 
Is  just  the  lesson  that  you  taught. 
If  any  hear  your  gentle  voice 
In  verse  of  mine,  then  I'll  rejoice 
And  sing  along  my  stumbling  way, 
"He's  home  again  in  Bramble  Brae!" 


762976 


CONTENTS 

BETWEEN   TWO   WORLDS 

THE  UNILLUMINED  VERGE 1 

FROM  ONE  LONG  DEAD 4 

FATHER  TO  MOTHER* 6 

THE  CHILD  TO  THE  FATHER 8 

A  PRAYER  OF  OLD  AGE 10 

THE  RHONE  GLACIER  —  SUNSET 14 

JAMES  McCosn 17 

LE  BONHEUR  DE  CE  MONDE  (Plantin) 1 8 

THE  HAPPINESS  OF  THIS  WORLD  (Translation)  ....  19 

R.  L.   S 20 

McGlFFEN 22 

AT  THE  FARRAGUT  STATUE      25 

NEWS  FROM  A  MISSING  LINER 27 

FOR  A  CLASSMATE  DEAD  AT  SEA 29 

BRAMBLE    BRAE 

A  TOAST  TO  OUR  NATIVE  LAND 33 

THE  TOWERS  OF  PRINCETON 34 


IX 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ROOSEVELT  IN  WYOMING 36 

UNCLE  SAM  TO  KIPLING 38 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  WISH  FOR  THOSE  WHO  WRITE   .    .  40 

To  CHLOE 42 

To  THE  ELF  ON  MY  CALENDAR 43 

CAPRICE 44 

RETROSPECT 46 

IN  THE  CROWD 47 

REMEMBRANCE 48 

OFF  FORT  HAMILTON  IN  SUMMER 49 

OVER  THE  FERRY 50 

BRAMBLE  BRAE  IN  OCTOBER ,    .  52 


WITH   FLOWERS 

ON  A  SPRAY  OF  HEATHER 57 

THE  HOTHOUSE  VIOLET  SPEAKS 59 

A  SONG 6 1 

WHAT  THE  FLOWERS  SAID 63 

DIANA'S  VALENTINE      65 

WITH  SOME  BIRTHDAY  ROSES 67 


WRITTEN   IN    BOOKS 

IN  A  VOLUME  OF  HERRICK      71 

IN  "SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS" 73 

IN  " SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE" 74 

IN  GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  POEMS 75 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

IN  "THE  KING'S  LYRICS" 76 

THE  SONG  OF  TEMBINOKA,  KING  OF  APEMAMA      .    .  77 

IN  THE  MANNER  OF  KIPLING 79 

FOR  A  NOVEL  OF  HALL  CAINE'S 80 

IN  "  HELBECK  OF  BANNISDALE  " 81 

A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING 82 

IN  NICHOLSON'S   "ALMANAC  OF  SPORTS" 83 

IN  NICHOLSON'S  "  CITY  TYPES" 84 

IN  "THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY"      85 

A  VALENTINE 86 

IN   "HALLO,   MY  FANCY!" 87 

THE  BOOK  SPEAKS 88 

IN  HERFORD'S  VERSES 89 

IN  A  BOOK  OF  GIBSON'S  DRAWINGS 90 

IN  A  VOLUME  OF  Miss  GUINEY'S  POEMS 91 

IN  "  BARBARA  FRIETCHIE — A  PLAY" 92 

To  C.  H.  M.  AND  H.  H.  M 94 

To  MY  MOTHER 96 

A  BOOK'S  SOLILOQUY 97 

ENVOY 99 


BETWEEN  TWO   WORLDS 


On  the  dark  decline  of  the  unillumined 
verge  between  the  two  worlds. 

George  Meredith. 


THE  UNILLUMINED   VERGE 

TO    A    FRIEND   DYING 

THEY  tell  you  that  Death's  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
That  under  the  shade  of  a  cypress  you'll  find  him, 

And,  struggling  on  wearily,  lashed  by  the  goad 
Of  pain,  you  will  enter  the  black  mist  behind  him. 


I  can  walk  with  you  up  to  the  ridge  of  the  hill, 
And  we'll  talk  of  the  way  we  have  come  through 
the  valley; 

Down  below  there  a  bird  breaks  into  a  trill, 

And  a  groaning  slave  bends  to  the  oar  of  his  galley. 


You  are  up  on  the  heights  now,  you  pity  the  slave — 
"  Poor  soul,  how  fate  lashes  him  on  at  his  rowing! 
Yet  it's  joyful  to  live,  and  it's  hard  to  be  brave 
When  you  watch  the  sun  sink  and  the  daylight  is 
going." 


We  are  almost  there — our  last  walk  on  this  height — 
I  must  bid  you  good-by  at  that  cross  on  the 
mountain. 

See  the  sun  glowing  red,  and  the  pulsating  light 
Fill  the  valley,  and  rise  like  the  flood  in  a  fountain ! 


And  it  shines  in  your  face  and  illumines  your  soul ; 

We  are  comrades  as  ever,  right  here  at  your  going ; 
You  may  rest  if  you  will  within  sight  of  the  goal, 

While  I  must  return  to  my  oar  and  the  rowing. 


We  must  part  now  ?     Well,  here  is  the  hand  of  a 

friend ; 
I  will  keep  you  in  sight  till  the  road  makes  its 

turning 
Just  over  the  ridge  within  reach  of  the  end 

Of  your  arduous  toil — the  beginning  of  learning. 


You  will  call  to  me  once  from  the  mist,  on  the  verge, 
"Au  revoir!"  and  "good  night!"  while  the  twilight 

is  creeping 

Up  luminous  peaks,  and  the  pale  stars  emerge? 
Yes,  I  hear  your  faint  voice :  "  This  is  rest,  and  like 
sleeping!" 


FROM   ONE   LONG   DEAD 

WHAT !   You  here  in  the  moonlight  and  thinking 

of  me? 

Is  it  you,  O  my  comrade,  who  laughed  at  my  jest? 
But  you  wept  when  I  told  you  I  longed  to  be  free, 
And  you  mourned  for  a  while  when  they  laid  me 
at  rest. 


I've  been  dead  all  these  years!  and  to-night  in  your 
heart 

There's  a  stir  of  emotion,  a  vision  that  slips — 
It's  my  face  in  the  moonlight  that  gives  you  a  start, 

It's  my  name  that  in  joy  rushes  up  to  your  lips! 


Yes,  I'm  young,  oh,  so  young,  and  so  little  I  know ! 

A  mere  child  that  is  learning  to  walk  and  to  run ; 
While  I  grasp  at  the  shadows  that  wave  to  and  fro 

I  am  dazzled  a  bit  by  the  light  of  the  Sun. 


I  am  learning  the  lesson,  I  try  to  grow  wise, 

But  at  night  I  am  baffled  and  worn  by  the  strife ; 

I  am  humbled,  and  then  there's  an  impulse  to  rise, 
And  a  voice  whispers,  "  Onward  and  win !     This 
is  Life!" 


And  the  Force  that  is  drawing  me  up  to  the  Height, 
That  inspires  me  and  thrills  me, — each  day  a  new 

birth,— 

Is  the  Force  that  to  Chaos  said,  "  Let  there  be  Light ! " 
And  it  gave  us  sweet  glimpses  of  Heaven  on 
Earth. 


It  is  Love!  and  you  know  it  and  feel  it,  my  Soul! 

For  you  love  me  in  spite  of  the  grave  and  its  bars. 
And  it  moves  the  whole  Universe  on  to  its  goal, 

And  it  draws  frail  Humanity  up  to  the  stars! 


FATHER  TO  MOTHER 

THIS  is  our  child,  Dear— flesh  of  our  flesh  and  bone 

of  our  bone ; 
Here  is  the  end  of  our  youth,  and  now  we  begin  to 

atone. 
Now  we  do  feel  what  their  love  was — those  who  have 

reared  us  and  taught; 
Now  do  we  know  of  the  treasures  that  neither  are 

sold  nor  bought 
Here  is  the  joy  of  the  Race — joy  that  must  grow 

out  of  pain ; 
Here  is  the  last  of  our  Self — now  we  are  links  in  the 

chain. 
Body  of  yours  and  mine  no  more  is  the  measure  of 

grief- 
All  that  he  suffers  is  ours — and  increased  while  we 

cry  for  relief; 


Yea,  for  our  boy,  our  Beloved,  we'll  yearn  through 

the  beckoning  years — 
Toil  for  him,  laugh  with  him,  struggle,  and  pour  out 

the  fountain  of  tears ! 


THE   CHILD   TO   THE   FATHER 

FATHER,  it's  your  love  that  safely  guides  me, 
Always  it's  around  me,  night  and  day ; 

It  shelters  me,  and  soothes,  but  never  chides  me 
Yet,  father,  there's  a  shadow  in  my  way. 


All  the  day,  my  father,  I  am  playing 

Under  trees  where  sunbeams  dance  and  dart- 

But  often  just  at  night  when  I  am  praying 
I  feel  this  awful  hunger  in  my  heart. 


Father,  there  is  something — it  has  missed  me ; 

I've  felt  it  through  my  little  days  and  years ; 
And  even  when  you  petted  me  and  kissed  me 

I've  cried  myself  to  sleep  with  burning  tears. 


To-day  I  saw  a  child  and  mother  walking ; 

I  caught  a  gentle  shining  in  her  eye, 
And  music  in  her  voice  when  she  was  talking- 

Oh,  father,  is  it  that  that  makes  me  cry  ? 


Oh,  never  can  I  put  my  arms  around  her, 
Or  never  cuddle  closer  in  the  night ; 

Mother,  oh,  my  mother!  I've  not  found  her — 
I  look  for  her  and  cry  from  dark  to  light ! 


A   PRAYER   OF   OLD  AGE 

O  LORD,  I  am  so  used  to  all  the  byways 

Throughout  Thy  devious  world, 
The  little  hill-paths,  yea,  and  the  great  highways 

Where  saints  are  safely  whirled ! 
And  there  are  crooked  ways,  forbidden  pleasures, 

That  lured  me  with  their  spell ; 
But  there  I  lingered  not,  and  found  no  treasures— 

Though  in  the  mire  I  fell. 


And  now  I'm  old  and  worn,  and,  scarcely  seeing 

The  beauties  of  Thy  work, 
I  catch  faint  glimpses  of  the  shadows  fleeing 

Through  valleys  in  the  murk ; 
Yet  I  can  feel  my  way — my  mem'ry  guides  me ; 

I  bear  the  yoke  and  smile. 
I'm  used  to  life,  and  nothing  wounds  or  chides  me ; 

Lord,  let  me  live  awhile! 


10 


And  then,  dear  Lord,  I  still  can  feel  the  thrilling 

Of  Nature  in  the  Spring — 
The  uplift  of  Thy  hills,  the  song-birds  trilling, 

The  lyric  joy  they  bring. 
I'm  not  too  old  to  see  the  regal  beauty 

Of  moon  and  stars  and  sun; 
Nature  can  still  reveal  to  me  my  duty 

Till  my  long  task  is  done. 


0  Lord,  to  me  the  pageant  is  entrancing — 
The  march  of  States  and  Kings! 

1  keenly  watch  the  human  race  advancing 

And  see  Man  master  Things : 
From  him  who  read  the  secret  of  the  thunder 

And  made  the  lightning  kind, 
Down  to  this  marvel — all  the  growing  wonder 

Of  force  controlled  by  Mind. 


ii 


And  this  dear  land  of  ours,  the  freeman's  Nation ! 

Lord,  let  me  live  and  see 
Fulfilment  of  our  fathers'  aspiration, 

When  each  man's  really  free! 
When  all  the  strength  and  skill  that  move  the 
mountains, 

And  pile  up  riches  great, 
Shall  sweeten  patriotism  at  its  fountains 

And  purify  the  State! 


But  there  are  closer  ties  than  these  that  bind  me 

And  make  me  long  to  stay 
And  linger  in  the  dusk  where  Death  may  find  me 

On  Thine  own  chosen  day ; 
There's  one  who  walks  beside  me  in  the  gloaming 

And  holds  my  faltering  hand — 
Without  her  guidance  I  can  make  no  homing 

In  any  distant  land. 


12 


Some  day  when  we  are  tired,  like  children  playing, 

And  wearied  drop  our  toys — 
When  all  the  work  and  burden  of  our  staying 

Has  mingled  with  our  joys — 
With  those  we  love  around — our  eyelids  drooping, 

Too  spent  with  toil  to  weep — 
Like  some  kind  nurse  o'er  drowsy  children  stooping, 

Lord,  take  us  home  to  sleep! 


THE  RHONE  GLACIER  —  SUNSET 

LIKE  the  uncounted  years  of  God  it  rolls 
From  out  the  sky.     The  light  of  heaven  shines 
Upon  its  wrinkled  brow,  that  seems  a  part 
Of  that  stupendous  dome  of  boundless  blue 
Where,  like  a  pebble  in  the  ocean  depths, 
This  little  world  is  lost.     The  sparkling  sun 
Plays  gently  in  the  deep  green,  icy  clefts 
Like  moonlight  in  the  tender  eyes  of  one 
Who  looks  to  heaven  to  find  her  lover's  face. 
Silent,  serene,  implacable  it  stands — 
A  mighty  symbol  of  the  Force  that  moved 
Across  the  surface  of  the  youthful  earth 
And  scored  the  continents  with  valleys  deep, 
As  children  write  upon  the  yielding  sand. 
Back  to  the  dawn  of  things  its  lineage  runs — 
Countless  ages  back  to  that  bleak  time 


When  frightful  monsters  played  upon  the  hills — 
Always  the  same,  yet  moving  slowly  onward, 
In  heaven  its  head,  its  feet  upon  the  world. 
The  Rhone  that  trickles  from  the  glacier's  edge — 
Makes  valleys  smile  with  grain  and  flower  and  fruit 
And  turns  the  wheels  that  forge  the  tools  of  trade — 
Is  but  the  lash  with  which  the  giant  plays 
And  spins  the  tops  that  swarm  with  struggling 

men. 

"What  is  Man,  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him?"— 
This  pleasure  or  this  pain,  this  wealth  or  want, 
This  tragic  comedy  we  call  our  life ! 


Across  the  meadows  as  the  evening  falls 
A  shepherd  drives  his  sheep,  and  fondly  bears 
Above  the  rocky  stream  the  weakling  lamb ; 
The  children  hear  the  father's  kindly  voice 
And  run  to  greet  and  cheer  his  late  return, 
While  from  his  humble  cottage  gleams  a  light. 


The  sheep  are  nestled  in  their  sheltering  fold — 
The  door  springs  open  to  a  welcome  cry, 
And  all  at  last  are  safe  within  the  Home. 


In  cold  and  awful  majesty  it  stands 
Against  the  darkening  sky, — Force  without 

warmth, 
Strength  without  passion. 

But  at  the  touch 

Of  homely  human  ways  its  terrors  flee 
And  Force  is  swallowed  up  in  Life  with  Love. 


16 


JAMES   McCOSH 

1811-1894 

YOUNG  to  the  end  through  sympathy  with  youth, 
Gray  man  of  learning — champion  of  truth ! 
Direct  in  rugged  speech,  alert  in  mind, 
He  felt  his  kinship  with  all  humankind, 
And  never  feared  to  trace  development 
Of  high  from  low — assured  and  full  content 
That  man  paid  homage  to  the  Mind  above, 
Uplifted  by  the  "  Royal  Law  of  Love." 


The  laws  of  nature  that  he  loved  to  trace 
Have  worked,  at  last,  to  veil  from  us  his  face ; 
The  dear  old  elms  and  ivy-covered  walls 
Will  miss  his  presence,  and  the  stately  halls 
His  trumpet- voice ;  while  in  their  joys 
Sorrow  will  shadow  those  he  called  "  my  boys  "  ! 


LE  BONHEUR  DE  CE  MONDE 

(Copie  d'un  sonnet  compost  par  Plantin  au  XVIe  si£cle.) 

AVOIR  une  maifon  commode,  propre  &  belle, 

Un  jardin  tapiffe  d'efpaliers  odorans, 

Des  fruits,  d'excellent  vin,  peu  de  train,  peu  d'enfans, 

Poffeder  feul,  fans  bruit,  une  femme  fidele. 

N'avoir  dettes,  amour,  ni  proces,  ni  querelle, 

Ni  de  partage  a  faire  avecque  fes  parens, 

Se  contenter  de  peu,  n'efperer  rien  des  Grands, 

Regler  tous  fes  deffeins  sur  un  jufte  modele. 


Vivre  avecque  franchife  &  fans  ambition, 
S'adonner  fans  fcrupule  a  la  devotion, 
Domter  fes  paffions,  les  rendre  obeiffantes. 
Conferver  1'efprit  libre,  &  le  jugement  fort, 
Dire  fon  Chapelet  en  cultivant  fes  entes, 
C'eft  attendre  chez  foi  bien  doucement  la  mort. 


18 


THE  HAPPINESS   OF   THIS   WORLD 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  PLANTIN 

To  have  a  home,  convenient  for  thy  life, 
With  fragrant  fruit-walls  in  a  garden  fine, 
Some  children,  some  retainers,  and  rare  wine ; 

To  live  serenely  with  thy  faithful  wife ; 

To  have  no  debts,  nor  quarrels,  nor  legal  strife, 
Nor  separation  from  dear  kin  of  thine ; 
Expecting  nothing  from  the  Great,  to  shine 

With  modest  light  and  just,  where  greed  is  rife. 


To  live  with  freedom,  yet  to  be  devout, 
Ruling  thy  well-curbed  passions — and  without 

Ambition's  scourge  to  thwart  thy  regnant  will ; 
Truly  to  worship  God  with  ardent  breath 

Among  His  shrubs  and  trees  on  plain  and  hill — 
Thus  pleasantly  shalt  thou  at  home  wait  Death. 


R.  L.  S. 

"  Where  hath  fleeting  Beauty  led? 
To  the  doorway  of  the  dead." 
All  the  way  you  followed  her 
Tripping  through  the  palms  and  fir ; 
All  the  way  around  you  flew 
Splendid  spirits  from  the  blue — 
Dreams  and  visions  lightly  caught 
In  the  meshes  of  your  thought. 
What  a  glorious  retinue 
Made  that  arduous  chase  with  you ! 
Half  the  world  stood  still  to  see 
Song  and  Fancy  follow  free 
At  the  waving  of  your  wand — 
While  the  echoing  hills  respond 
To  your  voice. 


20 


And  now  the  race 
Ends  with  your  averted  face ; 
At  full  effort  you  have  sped 
Through  that  doorway  of  the  dead- 
But  the  hills  and  woods  remain 
Peopled  from  your  teeming  brain ! 
All  that  stately  company 
Linger  where  their  eyes  may  see 
Beauty  fling  the  laurel  o'er, 
At  the  closing  of  the  door! 

From  Suppressed  Chapters. 


21 


McGIFFEN 

THE   HERO    COMING   HOME 

His  body  was  clad  in  his  uniform  of  Captain  in  the  Chinese  Navy, 
and  sent  home  to  his  mother  at  Washington,  Pennsylvania. 

Associated  Press. 

I  LENT  him  to  my  country, 

And  he  wore  the  Navy  blue; 
I  bade  him  do  his  duty, 

And  he  said  he  would  be  true. 


It's  home  they  say  you're  coming — 

And  it's  home  you  came  to  me 
When  you  wore  your  first  blue  jacket 

At  the  old  Academy. 
And  the  neighbors  said,  "  How  handsome ! 

What  a  sailor  he  will  be!" 
But  I  only  drew  him  closer 

In  my  coddling  mother's  joy, 
And  said,  "  Well,  what's  a  sailor  ? 

He's  my  brave  boy!" 


22 


And  then  they  told  the  story 
Of  his  courage  in  the  fight — 

How  he  ruled  a  heathen  war-ship 
And  fought  it  with  his  might. 


It's  home  he  wrote  his  mother 

When  the  smoke  had  cleared  away : 
"  I  can  see — so  don't  you  worry — 

Though  I'm  riddled  by  the  fray." 
And  the  neighbors  said,  "  How  glorious ! 

What  a  Hero  is  your  son! 
The  world  is  all  a-talking 

Of  the  battle  that  he  won ! " 
I  said,  "Well,  what's  a  Hero? 

He's  my  brave  son!" 


And  now  to  me  he's  coming, 
And  he  wears  a  Captain's  bars ; 

It's  a  foreign  nation's  uniform, 
But  wrapped  in  Stripes  and  Stars. 


It's  home  at  last  you're  coming, 

And  it's  home  at  last  to  me. 
You're  a  hero  and  immortal, 

And  you  fought  to  make  men  free. 
But  your  heart  is  cold  within  you 

And  your  dear  eyes  cannot  see ! 
They  say,  "  Be  strong,  O  mother ; 

Proud  laurels  crown  his  head!" 
Alas,  what's  left  of  glory  ? 

My  boy,  my  boy  is  dead! 


AT   THE   FARRAGUT   STATUE 

To  live  a  hero,  then  to  stand 

In  bronze  serene  above  the  city's  throng ; 
Hero  at  sea,  and  now  on  land 

Revered  by  thousands  as  they  rush  along: 


If  these  were  all  the  gifts  of  fame — 
To  be  a  shade  amid  alert  reality, 

And  win  a  statue  and  a  name — 

How  cold  and  cheerless  immortality ! 


But  when  the  sun  shines  in  the  Square, 

And  multitudes  are  swarming  in  the  street, 

Children  are  always  gathered  there, 

Laughing  and  playing  round  the  hero's  feet. 


And  in  the  crisis  of  the  game — 

With  boyish  grit  and  ardor  it  is  played — 
You'll  hear  some  youngster  call  his  name: 
"The  Admiral — he  never  was  afraid!" 


And  so  the  hero  daily  lives, 

And  boys  grow  braver  as  the  Man  they  see ! 
The  inspiration  that  he  gives 

Still  helps  to  make  them  loyal,  strong,  and  free ! 


26 


NEWS  FROM  A  MISSING  LINER 

TO   A   CONVALESCENT 

CRAWLING  back  to  port  again,  half  her  cargo  shifted, 
Just  enough  of  fuel  left  to  steam  her  to  the  pier ; 

Plunging  through  an  icy  gale  when  the  fog  has  lifted, 
Battered  by  the  breakers,  but  her  lights  a-burning 
clear! 


Hope  almost  abandoned,  days  and  nights  she 

floundered — 
Nights  when  not  a  star  was  out  and  no  sea-lights 

were  near; 
All  the  world  believed  her  lost ;  men  despaired,  but 

wondered 

How  the  liner  could  be  wrecked  and  Kipling  there 
to  steer! 


27 


Now  she  makes  her  harbor-lights,  glides  through  seas 

enchanted — 

Whistles  shrieking  gayly  and  thousands  at  the  pier ; 
On  the  bridge  the  Captain,  pale  and  worn — undaunted ! 
"  Welcome  back  to  life  again!"     Hear  the  people 

cheer! 


28 


FOR   A   CLASSMATE   DEAD  AT   SEA 

(w.  F.  STOUTENBURGH) 

\ 

His  voice  was  gentle  and  his  eyes  were  kind ; 

No  one  among  us  but  did  call  him  friend ; 
Fond  woman's  heart  and  student's  thoughtful  mind 

Together  in  him  did  with  fitness  blend : 
And  now  he  is  no  more ! 


We  blindly  murmur  at  the  bitter  Fate 

That  summoned  him  in  other  lands  to  roam; 

And  when  upon  him  Sickness  wrought  its  hate 

Half  round  the  world,  it  brought  him  almost  home, 
To  die  when  near  our  shore. 


29 


We  blindly  murmur — but  we  only  know 
Calm  rests  his  body  in  old  Ocean's  deeps ; 

While  we  are  groping  in  the  mists  below, 
Serene  his  soul  on  other,  cloudless  steeps — 
Forever — evermore. 


BRAMBLE  BRAE 


A  TOAST    TO   OUR  NATIVE   LAND 

HUGE  and  alert,  irascible  yet  strong, 
We  make  our  fitful  way  'mid  right  and  wrong. 
One  time  we  pour  out  millions  to  be  free, 
Then  rashly  sweep  an  empire  from  the  sea! 
One  time  we  strike  the  shackles  from  the  slaves, 
And  then,  quiescent,  we  are  ruled  by  knaves. 
Often  we  rudely  break  restraining  bars, 
And  confidently  reach  out  toward  the  stars. 


Yet  under  all  there  flows  a  hidden  stream 

Sprung  from  the  Rock  of  Freedom,  the  great  dream 

Of  Washington  and  Franklin,  men  of  old 

Who  knew  that  freedom  is  not  bought  with  gold. 

This  is  the  Land  we  love,  our  heritage, 

Strange  mixture  of  the  gross  and  fine,  yet  sage 

And  full  of  promise — destined  to  be  great. 

Drink  to  Our  Native  Land!      God  Bless  the  State! 


33 


THE  TOWERS  OF  PRINCETON 

FROM  THE  TRAIN 

THERE  they  are !  above  the  green  trees  shining — 
Old  towers  that  top  the  castles  of  our  dreams, 

Their  turrets  bright  with  rays  of  sun  declining — 
A  painted  glory  on  the  window  gleams. 


But,  oh,  the  messages  to  travellers  weary 
They  signal  through  the  ether  in  the  dark! 

The  years  are  long,  the  path  is  steep  and  dreary, 
But  there's  a  bell  that  struck  in  boyhood — hark ! 


The  note  is  faint — but  ghosts  are  gayly  trooping 
From  ivied  halls  and  swarming  'neath  the  trees. 

Old  friends,  you  bring  new  life  to  spirits  drooping — 
Your  laughter  and  your  joy  are  in  the  breeze! 


34 


They're  gone  in  dusk, — the  towers  and  dreams  are 

faded, — 

But  something  lingers  of  eternal  Youth ; 
We're  strong  again,  though  doubting,  worn,  and 

jaded ; 
We  pledge  anew  to  friends  and  love  and  truth! 


35 


ROOSEVELT   IN   WYOMING 

TOLD   BY   A   GUIDE— 18991 

Do  you  know  Yancey's?     Where  the  winding  trail 
From  Washburn  Mountain  strikes  the  old  stage 
road, 

And  wagons  from  Cooke  City  and  the  mail 
Unhitch  awhile,  and  teamsters  shift  the  load  ? 


A  handy  bunch  of  men  are  round  the  stove 

At  Yancey's — hunters  back  from  Jackson's  Hole, 

And  Ed  Hough  telling  of  a  mighty  drove 
Of  elk  that  he  ran  down  to  Teton  Bowl. 


And  Yancey  he  says :  "  Mr.  Woody,  there, 
Can  tell  a  hunting  yarn  or  two — beside, 

He  guided  Roosevelt  when  he  shot  a  bear 

And  six  bull  elk  with  antlers  spreading  wide." 

i  Tall,  silent  old  Woody,  a  fine  type  of  the  fast-vanishing  race  of 
game-hunters  and  Indian-fighters. 

Roosevelt's  The  Wilderness  Hunter. 

36 


But  Woody  is  a  guide  who  does  n't  brag; 

He  puffed  his  pipe  awhile,  then  gravely  said: 
"  I  knew  he'd  put  the  Spaniards  in  a  bag, 

For  Mister  Roosevelt  always  picked  a  head. 


"  That  man  won't  slosh  around  in  politics 

And  waste  his  time  a-killing  little  game ; 
He  studies  elk,  and  men,  and  knows  their  tricks, 
And  when  he  picks  a  head  he  hits  the  same." 


Now,  down  at  Yancey's  every  man's  a  sport, 
And  free  to  back  his  knowledge  up  with  lead ; 

And  each  believes  that  Roosevelt  is  the  sort 
To  run  the  State,  because  he  "picks  a  head." 


37 


UNCLE   SAM   TO   KIPLING 

(1899) 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden ! 
Have  done  with  childish  days. 

R.  K. 

OH,  thank  you,  Mr.  Kipling, 

For  showing  us  the  way 
To  buckle  down  to  business 

And  end  our  "  childish  day." 
We  know  we're  young  and  frisky 

And  haven't  too  much  sense — 
At  least,  not  in  the  measure 

We'll  have  a  few  years  hence. 


Now,  this  same  "  White  Man's  burden  " 

You're  asking  us  to  tote 
Is  not  so  unfamiliar 

As  you're  inclined  to  note. 
We  freed  three  million  negroes, 

Their  babies  and  their  wives ; 
It  cost  a  billion  dollars 

And  near  a  million  lives! 


And  while  we  were  a-fighting 
In  all  those  "  thankless  years  " 

We  did  not  get  much  helping — 
Well,  not  from  English  "  peers." 

And  so — with  best  intentions — 
We're  not  exactly  wild 

To  free  the  Filipino, 
"  Half  devil  and  half  child." 


Then,  thank  you,  Mr.  Kipling; 

Though  not  disposed  to  groan 
About  the  "White  Man's  burden," 

We've  troubles  of  our  own ; 
Enough  to  keep  us  busy 

When  English  friends  inquire, 
"  Why  don't  you  use  your  talons  ? 

There  are  chestnuts  in  the  fire  !  " 


39 


A   NEW   YEAR'S   WISH   FOR   THOSE 
WHO   WRITE 

IN  this  time  of  joy  and  cheer 

When  we  greet  the  buoyant  year, 

Now,  old  friends,  we  cherish  you, 

Bless  the  dreams  you've  brought  to  view — 

Kindly  fancy,  happy  thought, 

Visions  from  the  fairies  caught, 

Rhyme  and  story,  song  and  play, 

Fantasy  for  holiday — 

All  the  treasures  of  your  mind 

Spent  to  make  the  world  more  kind. 


While  we  grope  in  dark  and  fog, 
Flounder  onward  through  the  bog, 
You,  serene  upon  the  height, 
Gambol  in  the  cheery  light — 
Toss  your  laughter  from  the  steep, 
Bringing  hope  to  those  who  weep. 
What  fair  visions  brightly  gleam 
Through  cloud-rifts !      Your  dearest  dream 
Clothed  in  beauty  on  the  peak, 
Waiting  for  the  Muse  to  speak. 
40 


Here's  our  wish  at  New  Year's  time, 
Faint-expressed  in  halting  rhyme : 
For  the  men  who  dream  and  write 
Make  the  future  clear  and  bright ; 
Thaw  the  cynic  from  their  heart — 
Love  and  faith  are  highest  Art. 
Let  them  picture  with  their  pen 
Not  our  manners  but  our  men. 
Bless  them  all  at  New  Year's  tide ! 
May  their  skill  and  fame  abide ! 
And  all  women — charming,  bright — 
Grant  that  they  may  never  write ! 


TO  CHLOE 

FOR   A   MENDED    GLOVE 

FAIR  Chloe  looked  upon  the  old  torn  glove, 
Then  touched  its  ragged  edges  with  her  fingers, 

And  lo !  the  rent  was  closed — as  if  for  love 

Sweet  healing  follows  where  her  touch  but  lingers. 


If  all  the  rents  that  follow  Chloe's  eyes, 
And  all  the  hearts  despairingly  defended, 

Were  healed  so  soon — we'd  straightway  realize 
That  love  and  life  are  good  as  new  when  mended. 


TO   THE  ELF  ON  MY   CALENDAR 

SWEET  Elf,  you'll  pipe  a  merry  tune, 
Make  days  and  months  all  gladness ; 

The  clear,  bright  note  you  sound  in  June 
Will  cheer  December's  sadness. 


You'll  never  pout  on  rainy  days, 
Nor  when  it's  cold  will  shiver, 

But  sit  serene  and  sing  your  lays. 
May  Old  Time  bless  the  giver! 


43 


CAPRICE 

LOVE  laughed  awhile, 
And  ridiculed  my  daring 

To  rashly  crave  a  smile 

From  her,  heart-whole,  uncaring. 
Oh,  how  Love  laughed! 


Love  angry  grew 

And  spoiled  her  pretty  features ; 
I  was — she  vowed  it  true — 

The  most  despised  of  creatures. 
Oh,  how  Love  frowned ! 


Love  dropped  a  tear, 

Her  anger  with  it  falling; 

I  felt  her  blue  eyes  clear, 

My  heart  and  hopes  enthralling. 
Oh,  how  Love  cried! 


44 


Her  tears  Love  dried, 

And  then  she  looked  up  sweetly ; 
No  more  her  glance  defied — 

I  pressed  my  suit  discreetly. 
Love  kissed  me  then! 


45 


RETROSPECT 

AT  evening,  when  the  breeze  dies  down, 
And  regal  Nature  doffs  her  crown, 
When  brown-limbed  pines,  like  minarets, 
Fringe  all  the  hills,  and  tired  day  frets 
To  rest  awhile — ah,  then,  I  know, 
Into  a  shadowed  room  you  go, 
And  softly  touch  the  organ  keys ; 
While  pale  stars  blink  amid  the  trees 
You  sing  a  peaceful  vesper  hymn 
That  rises  from  your  full  heart's  brim ; 
Your  kindly  eyes  are  dimmed  with  tears- 
You  wander  through  remembered  years; 
From  gay  to  grave  your  fancies  fly, 
And  end  the  journey  with  the  cry : 
My  heart  played  truant  from  my  will!  . 
I  loved  him  then — /  love  him  still. 


46 


IN   THE  CROWD 

A  PAIR  of  brown  eyes — no  matter  where, 

In  quiet  street  or  crowded  thoroughfare — 

Call  up  the  image  of  your  face  to  me. 

All  others  vanish,  only  you  I  see  ; 

Above  the  din  of  trade  your  voice  I  hear, 

And  merry  laughter,  ringing  sweet  and  clear, 

That  fades  into  a  smile  away : 

Thus  are  you  with  me  everywhere  and  every  day. 


47 


REMEMBRANCE 

No,  not  despair  of  ever  quite  forgetting 

The  happy  romance  of  those  dreamy  years, 
The  painful  weariness  of  vain  regretting 

Through  all  life's  varied  way  of  love  and  tears - 
Not  this  the  gladness  of  my  heart  represses, 

With  shadow  tinges  still  each  sunny  thought : 
The  fancy  that  with  poignant  touch  distresses 

Is  that  by  thee  I  am  perhaps  forgot! 


48 


OFF  FORT   HAMILTON   IN   SUMMER 

EMBRASURED  guns,  like  wearied  hounds,  all  sleeping, 
Their  muzzles  resting  on  the  cool,  green  turf; 

Along  the  Fort  their  peaceful  watch  now  keeping 
Above  the  mimic  battle  of  the  surf. 


And  you,  dear  one,  now  that  my  suit  is  ended — 
Let  passion  slumber  in  your  cool  dark  eyes ; 

The  wiles  by  which  your  heart  was  well  defended 
Embrasured  there  look  love  on  summer  skies. 


49 


OVER  THE  FERRY 

ONOMATOPOETIC 

CLANG  !     Ting-a-ling ! 

Then  a  scream  of  the  whistle. 
Sob!     Sob!     Sob!     Sob! 

Heaves  slowly  the  breast  of  the  iron-sinewed  giant ; 
And  the  swift  paddles  fling, 

Like  the  down  of  a  thistle, 

White  foam  from  their  blades,  while  the  waters  defiant 
Groan  under  their  merciless  tread ;  and  the  throb 
Of  the  heart  grows  exultingly  faster; 
Now  a  race  with  a  tug,  and  then  it  is  past  her — 
Glides  under  the  bow  of  a  stately  Cunarder — 
The  steel-lunged  giant  breathing  harder  and  harder 
While  nearing  the  wharves  of  the  City  of  Vanity 
To  roll  from  its  shoulders  the  load  of  humanity. 
And  up  near  the  bow,  with  arms  crossed  on  the  railing, 
The  bold  wind  with  kisses  her  fair  cheeks  assailing 
And  tossing  her  hair  from  her  brow,  stands  sweet 

Jennie, 
Who  hopes  on  the  way  to  the  school  to  meet  Bennie. 


And  what  he  will  say  she  is  anticipating — 
Her  heart  full  of  pleasure,  her  blue  eyes  dilating ; 
And  what  will  she  say?     Ah,  now  she  is  blushing. 
There  he  stands  on  the  pier!      How  the  people  are 

crushing! 
While  out  from  the  dock  the  churned  waters  are 

rushing. 

But  the  song  of  the  wheels  is,  "  I  love  him — I  love 
him!" 

Then  the  pilot  above 

Signals  "  Clang !     Ting-a-ling!" 
And  the  slowing  wheels  sing, 
"  Oh,  my  love — love — love!" 
Clang ! 


BRAMBLE   BRAE   IN   OCTOBER 

AND  now  the  corn  has  ripened  at  Bramble  Brae, 
And  all  the  hosts  are  marshalled  for  Autumn's  fray ; 
The  quaint  old  farm  is  changing  its  green  for  brown, 
Save  where  the  new  wheat  lifts  itself  to  the  light 
And  huddles  in  rows,  like  wrinkles  in  some  old  gown. 
Along  the  lane  the  quail  are  running  in  fright 
At  sound  of  guns  on  the  upland — the  cautious  dogs 
Are  coursing  over  the  fields,  and  keen-eyed  men 
Watch  for  the  whir  of  wings ;  the  hickory  logs 
Are  falling  down  in  the  clearing,  while  in  their  pen 
The  big  swine  gloat  on  the  heaped-up  trough ; 
In  woods  the  dead  leaves  rustle,  and  red  squirrels 

cough 
And  chatter  and  screech— chasing  each  other  from 

limb 

To  limb,  and  gather  their  stores  at  the  roots  of  trees. 
And  part  of  it  all  is  a  boy,  and  the  heart  of  him 
Glows  with  the  sumach,  and  sings  with  the  Autumn 

breeze. 


Down  in  the  valley  the  ancient  village  rests, 
Drowsing  along  the  curbs  of  its  quaint  old  street ; 
High  and  peaked  are  the  roofs,  and  antique  crests 
Are  carved  on  the  gables.     Fair  maids,  discreet, 
Sit  on  the  porches  and  talk  with  the  passing  youth ; 
For  Love  goes  by,  sometimes  in  homespun  clad, 
And  sometimes  rich  in  the  wealth  of  truth 
That  speaks  in  the  heart  and  the  eyes  of  the  lad. 
For  none  that  pass  are  the  eyes  of  the  bonny  girl 
Except  for  him ;  she  sits  and  waits  by  a  climbing  vine, 
Reading  the  verses  of  some  old  bard ;  the  pearl 
She  seeks  is  love,  and  only  love  is  the  wine 
That  colors  her  cheeks  and  snaps  in  her  sparkling  eyes 
But  the  lad  is  shy,  and  dreams  the  livelong  day 
That  love  and  his  lady  are  proof  against  all  surprise — 
So  up  on  the  hillside  he  longs  for  the  village  far  away. 


53 


Many  Autumns  have  glowed  on  the  hillside  there ; 

Slender  saplings  have  sprung  to  giant  trees ; 

Gray  is  his  head  and  furrowed  his  brow  with  care — 

The  heart  of  the  man  cries  out  to  the  Autumn  breeze. 

Dusk  in  the  valley,  and  cold  light  on  the  hill — 

Brown  is  the  sumach,  the  glory  of  youth  has  fled ; 

Drowsing  cattle  shiver,  the  night  is  chill, 

Memory  lives,  but  all  of  his  hopes  are  dead. 

Years  has  he  wandered  over  the  land  and  sea; 

Friends  he  has  cherished  and  lost,  and  women  loved ; 

Always  that  vision  haunted  his  fancy  free — 

The  dreamer  worshipped,  but  never  the  vision  proved. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  ancient  houses  sleep, 

Dotted  with  lights  that  break  through  the  evening 

gloom ; 

Dreams  that  stirred  the  face  of  the  waters  deep 
Cover  their  eyes  and  flee  to  a  welcoming  tomb. 


54 


WITH   FLOWERS 


ON  A   SPRAY   OF  HEATHER 

FAR  from  its  native  moorland 

Or  crest  of  "  wine-red  "  hill, 
At  sight  or  scent  of  heather 

The  hearts  of  Scotsmen  thrill. 
Though  crushed  its  purple  blossoms, 

Its  tender  stems  turned  brown, 
It  brings  romantic  Highlands 

Into  prosaic  town. 
The  clans  are  on  the  border, 

The  chiefs  are  in  the  fray ; 
We're  keen  upon  their  footsteps 

With  Walter  Scott  to-day. 
Peat  smoke  from  lowland  cottage 

Floats  curling  up,  and  turns 
Our  dreams  toward  quiet  hearthstones 

And  melodies  of  Burns. 


57 


And  last  our  fancy  lingers 
With  fond  regret  and  vain 

Where  sleeps  our  Tusitala 
Beneath  the  tropic  rain — 

Far  from  the  purple  heather 
Or  gleaming  rowan  bough, 

Alone  on  mountain  summit, 
"  Our  hearts  remember  how." 


St  Andrew's  Day. 


THE    HOTHOUSE  VIOLET  SPEAKS 


TO  A  FAIR  WOMAN 


I'VE  calmly  lived  my  sunny  little  life 
Under  the  crinkling  glass,  and  free  from  strife ; 
The  sky  above  and  all  around  is  blue, 
And  from  this  haven  now  I  come  to  you. 


Fair  Lady,  tell  me  have  I  heard  aright 
That  other  flowers  do  not  live  so  bright? 
That  in  dark  forests  and  by  noisy  streams 
The  pale  wood  violet  sheds  its  purple  beams  ? 


While  we  are  merry  in  this  fireside  glow 
My  humble  cousin  shivers  in  the  snow ; 
And  yet  a  cricket  whispered  once  to  me 
That  /the  captive  was — my  cousin,  free! 


59 


Sometimes  I've  dreamed  the  cricket  told  me  true ; 
I've  longed  for  freedom  and  the  pleasing  view 
Of  moss-grown  hummocks  and  great  whispering 

trees, 
With  gold-winged  songsters  humming  in  the  breeze. 


The  dream  is  over — I  have  lived  my  day 
Nourished  in  sun  with  other  violets  gay ; 
And  now  I'm  borne  afar  to  Paradise, 
To  find  my  haven  in  your  gentle  eyes. 


If  I  may  touch  your  lips  I'll  die  content 
Without  one  glimpse  of  freedom  or  days  spent 
In  woodland  dells ;  oh,  murmur,  while  I  fade, 
Your  own  sweet  mem'ries  of  the  forest  glade ! 


Come,  tell  me  quickly,  for  my  brief  hours  pass ; 
What !    You  too  captive  in  a  house  of  glass  ? 


60 


A  SONG 

WITH   A  RED   ROSE   ON   HER   BIRTHDAY 

What  the  Rose  thoitght : 

Oh,  to  be  one-and-twenty ! 
But  I  am  a  rose  that  must  bloom  for  a  day ; 
My  life  is  like  color  and  perfume  in  May ; 
To-night  I  shall  fade  in  her  beautiful  hair, 
And  touch  with  my  petals  her  proud  neck  and  fair. 

Oh,  to  be  one-and-twenty ! 


What  She  sang,  exultingly  : 

Oh,  to  be  one-and-twenty ! 
To  feel  that  the  glorious  days  of  my  youth 
Are  only  the  promise  of  hope,  love,  and  truth — 
That  all  joyful  things  in  my  bright  future  gleam, 
And  I  am  to  live  them  and  find  out  my  dream. 

Oh,  to  be  one-and-twenty! 


61 


What  He  wrote,  sadly  : 

Oh,  to  be  one-and-twenty! 

To  dream  that  the  great  world  is  still  all  my  own, 
And  cherish  again  the  ideals  that  have  flown ; 
To  follow  them,  hiding  with  cunning  and  art, 
And  find  them  all  sleeping  within  her  warm  heart, 

Her  heart  that  is  one-and-twenty! 


62 


WHAT   THE  FLOWERS   SAID 

HERE  are  roses,  red  and  white, 
Each  to  speak  what  I  would  write ; 
For,  when  in  your  quiet  room 
You  may  smell  their  sweet  perfume, 
I  shall  whisper  through  these  flowers 
Fancy's  thoughts  for  evening  hours. 
Then,  when  in  the  crowded  street 
You  and  I  may  chance  to  meet, 
I'll  discover  in  your  eyes 
What  you've  half  expressed  in  sighs ; 
For  if  in  your  dusky  hair 
One  red  rose  you  deign  to  wear 
I  shall  say,  "  I  know  that  she 
Wears  it  for  her  love  of  me." 


But  if  on  your  gentle  breast 
One  white  rose  may  dare  to  rest, 
Then  in  rapture  I'll  declare, 

"  That's  my  heart  a- resting  there." 
But  if  neither  red  nor  white 
May  your  hair  or  gown  bedight, 
Still  with  confidence  I'll  say, 

"  That  is  lovely  woman's  way — 
What  of  life  is  largest  part 
Hides  she  deepest  in  her  heart!" 


64 


DIANA'S   VALENTINE 

WITH   A   BUNCH   OF  VIOLETS 

Good  Saint  Valentine,  I  pray, 
While  around  this  town  you  stray, 
You  will  keep  your  eyes  alert 
For  a  maid  who  loves  to  flirt. 

If  among  the  hurrying  crowd — 
Beauties  fair  and  beauties  proud — 
You  should  see  one  like  a  queen, 
Eyes  of  blue,  with  golden  sheen 
In  her  hair  that's  flecked  with  brown, 
And  a  grace  about  her  gown, 
That's  Diana  ! 

Catch  her  eye 

As  she's  gayly  tripping  by ; 
Say  you  know  a  sorry  wight, 
Slow  of  speech  and  slow  to  write, 


Who  would  tell  her  through  these  flowers 
That  her  eyes  are  bright  as  stars 
In  the  blue ;  that  her  speech 
Haunts  his  mem'ry  (out  of  reach 
Like  their  perfume  faint  but  fine) ; 
That  her  laugh  is  like  rare  wine. 
As  you  leave  her  touch  her  lips ; 
Say  that  men  are  like  old  ships, 
Easy  towed,  but  hard  to  steer; 
Then  just  whisper  in  her  ear, 
"  Lovers  change,  but  friends  are  true 
Like  these  violets."     Then,  "Adieu." 


This,  Saint  Valentine,  I  pray, 
On  the  morning  of  that  day 
When  you  keep  your  eyes  alert 
For  all  maids  who  love  to  flirt. 

ARCADY,  February  fourteenth. 


66 


WITH  SOME  BIRTHDAY   ROSES 

IF  I  were  not  a  speechless  flower 
I'd  like  to  talk  with  you  an  hour 
And  whisper  many  pretty  things 
That  thinking  of  your  birthday  brings. 


(For  flowers  can  dream  of  happiness 
While  you  their  velvet  petals  press!) 
But  I  can't  talk — I  know  a  man 
Who  often  vainly  thinks  he  can, 


And  what  he  wanted  me  to  do 
Was  simply  to  look  fair  to  you 
And  wish  you  joy — and  then  surprise 
The  gentle  look  in  your  dear  eyes. 


67 


WRITTEN   IN   BOOKS 


IN  A  VOLUME  OF  HERRICK 

DEAR  old  worldling  gone  astray, 
You  would  rather  sing  than  pray  ; 
While  you  wore  the  preacher's  gown 
How  you  longed  for  London  Town ! 
When  your  head  ached,  then,  alack! 
You,  repentant,  gave  up  sack ; 
Old  and  worn  you  ruthlessly 
Bade  farewell  to  poesy ; 
Full,  you  never  cared  for  food, 
Sated,  you  were  always  good. 
Julia's  beauties  you  rehearse, 
Sing  her  charms  in  wanton  verse, 
But  to  make  poor  Julia  thine 
Not  one  pleasure  you'd  resign. 
Flattering,  you  tried  to  please ; 
Generous,  you  loved  your  ease ! 


Dear  old  Herrick,  you're  a  Man 
Built  upon  the  human  plan ; 
To  the  world  your  fame  belongs 
For  the  beauty  of  your  songs — 
Glorious  poet — not  a  saint — 
Lyric  splendor  without  taint ! 


72 


IN   "SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS" 

THE  Sonnets — bound  by  Riviere 
"*   And  newly  illustrated! 
As  though  the  words  that  Shakespeare  wrote 
By  outward  dress  are  rated! 


The  soul — the  fine,  immortal  part 
That  lives  without  the  binding, 

Is  something  from  the  poet's  heart ; 
'Tis  here — and  worth  the  finding. 


73 


IN   "SONNETS   FROM   THE 
PORTUGUESE" 

IN  this  book  a  woman  wrote  her  heart — 
Etching  there  the  image  of  a  Man. 

Faithful  woman !  But  the  years  depart, 
And  love  is  dust,  and  life  a  broken  span ! 


74 


IN  GEORGE  MEREDITH'S   POEMS 

f 

HERE  is  a  forest  tangle — 
Rank  weeds,  luxuriant  ferns,  and  giant  trees, 

All  in  a  hoarse-voiced  wrangle, 
With  creaking  branches  swaying  in  the  breeze. ' 

But  if  you  care  to  listen, 
Above  the  noise  you'll  hear  the  piping  of  a  bird, 

Gay  feathers  in  the  tree-tops  glisten, 
And  over  all  the  sweetest  music  ever  heard. 


75 


IN   "THE   KING'S   LYRICS" 

BEHOLD  "  The  Lyrics  of  the  King  " ! 
As  though  a  crown  on  those  who  sing 

Could  make  their  music  sweeter! 
To-day  we'll  choose  the  better  part — 
The  gentle  music  of  the  heart 

That  masters  rhyme  and  metre. 


THE  SONG  OF  TEMBINOKA,  KING  OF 
APEMAMA 

TO  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

> 

SING,  my  warriors,  sing!  men  of  the  sharklike  race! 
Sing  of  the  poet  who  came  and  greeted  us  face  to 

face. 
He  from  the  cold,  gray  North,  I,  in  these  tropic 

isles, 
Meet  as  brothers  and  bards,  with  eloquent  songs  and 

smiles — 
Meet  as  brothers,  though  singing  words  that  are 

strange  and  proud. 

Pale  and  wan  is  his  face,  while  mine  is  a  thunder-cloud ; 
But  the  heart  of  a  man  is  hidden  by  neither  language 

nor  skin — 
To  love  as  a  man  and  a  brother  maketh  the  whole 

world  kin. 


77 


The  tales  that  he  tells  are  of  heroes  who  fought  like 

braves  to  the  death — 
Bone  of  our  bone  are  these  heroes,  the  very  breath  of 

our  breath ! 
Then  sing,  my  warriors,  sing!  men  of  the  sharklike 

race! 
Sing  of  the  poet  who  came  and  greeted  us  face  to 

face! 

From  Overheard  in  Arcady. 


IN   THE  MANNER  OF  KIPLING 

"  SHOW  me  the  face  of  Truth,"  the  Sahib  said— 
"Show  me  its  beauty,  before  I'm  dead!" 
"Look!"  said  the  priest,  "with  unflinching  eyes; 

This  is  the  World,  and  not  Paradise. 

Look !     It  is  wicked,  and  cruel,  and  strong,  and 
wise!" 

From  Overheard  in  Arcady. 


79 


FOR  A  NOVEL  OF  HALL  CAINE'S 

AFTER   KIPLING 

HE  sits  in  a  sea-green  grotto  with  a  bucket  of  lurid 

paint, 
And  draws  the  Thing  as  it  isn't  for  the  God  of  Things 

as  they  ain't! 


80 


IN   "HELBECK   OF  BANNISDALE" 

THE  foolish  story  of  a  man  and  maid 
Who  loved  each  other  but  were  dire  afraid 
To  follow  where  their  true  hearts  surely  led 
And,  risking  all  things,  bravely  to  be  wed. 


What's  in  a  creed  to  keep  two  souls  apart? 
The  universal  solvent  is  the  heart! 


81 


A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING 

GOOD  luck,  good  cheer,  throughout  the  year ! 

A  bright  fire  on  the  hearthstone  burning; 
A  gleam  of  rose  at  evening's  close 

When,  wearied,  you  are  homeward  turning! 
By  ingle-nook  a  soothing  book — 

A  few  old  friends  in  Mem'ry's  castle ; 
A  bit  of  rhyme  at  Christmas-time 

To  wish  you  fortune  at  your  wassail ! 


IN  NICHOLSON'S   "ALMANAC  OF 
SPORTS" 

(WITH  VERSES  BY  KIPLING) 

IN  all  your  Calendar  of  Sports 

Why,  Rudyard,  do  you  slight  the  wheel? 
Were  you,  then,  never  out  of  sorts 

Until  you  felt  the  vibrant  steel 
Skim  over  miles  of  level  track? 

For  youth,  with  all  its  hope  and  cheer, 
When  we're  a-wheel  comes  rolling  back — 

And  it  is  Summer  all  the  year! 


IN  NICHOLSON'S  "CITY   TYPES" 

THE  City's  roar  is  rising  from  the  street ; 

The  old,  bedraggled  "  types  "  are  shuffling  through 

the  strife ; 

They  plod  and  push,  and  elbow  as  they  meet, 
And  glare  and  grin,  and  sadly  call  it  "  life." 


For  us  the  fireside  hearth  is  all  aglow, 

And  those  we  love  make  up  the  life  we  know. 


84 


IN   "THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY'3 

THE  year  is  old,  the  way  is  far ; 
I  catch  your  image  like  a  star 
That's  mirrored  in  a  crystal  brook ; 
For  love  of  you  I  send  a  book ! 


A  VALENTINE 

THOUGH  all  the  streams  are  white  with  frost 

And  all  the  fields  with  snow, 
Though  earth  its  greenery  has  lost, 

And  biting  gales  do  blow — 
Still  I'll  recall  the  summer  hours, 

The  blue  skies  and  the  vine — 
The  hillsides  pink  with  Alpine  flowers 

To  greet  my  Valentine! 


86 


IN  "HALLO,  MY  FANCY!" 

(BY  CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS  AND  S.  D.  S.,  JR.) 

"  HALLO,  my  Fancy !     View  Hallo ! " 

The  nimble  game  has  broken  cover 
And  skims  the  valley  to  and  fro ; 

By  cooling  brooks  it  seems  to  hover, 
Then  bounds  along.     "  Ho,  View  Hallo!" 

The  huntsmen  cry  from  brake  to  loch ; 
The  chase  grows  ardent — "View  Hallo!" 

From  quiet  shelter  echoes,  Droch. 


THE   BOOK   SPEAKS 

TO    EUGENE   FIELD 

I'M  keeping  jolly  comp'ny 

In  a  room  that's  full  of  books ; 
I'm  cheek  by  jowl  with  Horace 

And  a  lot  of  ancient  crooks. 
But  the  boys  I  like  to  play  with, 

When  the  boss  takes  off  his  coat, 
Are  the  wild  and  woolly  heroes 

From  Casey's  tabble-dote. 
And  when  the  lamp  is  lighted 

And  cosey  hours  ensue, 
I  talk  with  All-Aloney 

And  the  little  Boy  in  Blue. 
But  when  the  man  that  owns  the  books 

Throws  one  kind  glance  at  me 
I  sing  just  like  the  Dinkey 

In  the  Amfelula  Tree. 


88 


To  weep  with  those  who  weep  is  human ; 

We  give  our  praises  to  the  man  of  grit, 
And  honor  with  our  trust  the  true  man; 

Let's  laugh  a  little  with  a  man  of  wit ! 


89 


IN  A  BOOK   OF  GIBSON'S   DRAWINGS 

You  may  turn  these  pages  over, 

Looking  for  the  priceless  pearl ; 
You  may  search  from  back  to  cover 

For  the  finest  Gibson  girl. 
You  can  save  yourself  the  trouble — 

It's  no  earthly  use  to  look : 
The  charming  girl  who  takes  the  medal 

Is  a-holding  of  the  book. 


IN  A  VOLUME  OF  MISS  GUINEY'S 
POEMS 

A  MAKER  of  smooth  verse  and  facile  rhymes, 
And  lover  of  quaint  legends  from  old  times ; 
A  joyous  singer  in  New  England  bleak — 
Her  heart  is  Irish  and  her  mind  is  Greek. 


IN   "BARBARA  FRIETCHIE  — A   PLAY" 

TO  J.   M. 

WE  met  her  first  in  Arcady, 

Where  visions  fair  are  apt  to  be, 

Roaming  beneath  the  arching  trees — 

Her  laughter  cheering  up  the  breeze ; 

Sometimes  as  gay  as  Colinette, 

Then  fond  and  sad  as  Juliet. 

And  when  we'd  had  enough  of  anguish 

She'd  make  us  laugh  as  Lydia  Languish. 

No  mask  or  mood  was  twice  the  same — 

Yet  one  fair  face  behind  each  name. 

As  that  bright  vixen  of  the  mind, 

The  fascinating  Rosalind — 

As  Imogen  or  Viola, 

Or,  best  of  all,  sweet  Barbara — 

Always  the  same  alluring  grace 

And  wit  that  sparkles  in  her  face ! 


92 


The  road  to  Arcady  is  far 
And  sometimes  lonely  for  a  star — 
But  all  the  phantoms  of  the  air 
And  poets'  dreams  that  wander  there 
Would  miss  the  welcome  we  extend, 
Not  to  her  Art— just  to  a  friend! 


93 


TO   C.  H.  M.  AND  H.  H.  M. 

HERE  is  the  story — 

I  haven't  half  told  it  ; 
The  fun  and  the  glory, 

A  volume  can't  hold  it. 
But  this  is  a  spray, 

Withered  leaves  and  pressed  flowers, 
From  a  faded  bouquet 

That  was  plucked  in  gay  hours, 
Within  sound  of  the  waves 

Of  the  gentle  Pacific, 
Where  Nature  enslaves 

And  the  days  beatific 
Are  sandalled  with  gold 

And  wear  gems  on  their  fingers. 
All  the  tale  is  not  told 

Which  slow  Fancy  weaves, 
But  a  faint  odor  lingers 

About  these  dry  leaves 


94 


That  may  bring  recollection 

Of  prairie  and  loch 
With  a  hint  of  affection 
From 

Yours  ever, 

DROCH. 

Dedication  of  The  Monterey  Wedding. 


95 


TO   MY   MOTHER 

LONG  years  you've  kept  the  door  ajar 
To  greet  me,  coming  from  afar ; 
Long  years  in  my  accustomed  place 
I've  read  my  welcome  in  your  face, 
And  felt  the  sunlight  of  your  love 
Drive  back  the  years  and  gently  move 
The  telltale  shadow  'round  to  youth. 
You've  found  the  very  spring,  in  truth, 
That  baffles  time — the  kindling  joy 
That  keeps  me  in  your  heart  a  boy. 
And  now  I  send  an  unknown  guest 
To  bide  with  you  and  snugly  rest 
Beside  the  old  home's  ingle-nook. — 
For  love  of  me  you'll  love  my  book. 

Dedication  of  Overheard  in  Arcady. 


96 


A  BOOK'S  SOLILOQUY 

MY  lady's  room  is  full  of  books 
And  easy-chairs  and  curtained  nooks, 
And  dainty  tea-things  on  a  table, 
And  poetry,  and  tale,  and  fable, 
And  on  the  hearth  a  crackling  fire 
That  welcome  gives,  and  when  you  tire 
Of  pleasant  talk  you  still  may  find 
A  tempting  pasture  where  the  mind 
May  browse  awhile,  and  read  the  pages 
Which  poets  wrote,  or  fools,  or  sages. 


And  here  I  come  to  ask  a  place 
Among  these  worthies,  face  to  face ! 
To  be  allowed  on  some  low  shelf 
To  rest  and  dream,  and  pride  myself 
On  being  in  such  company — 
To  watch  fair  women  drinking  tea ; 


97 


And  if,  perchance,  on  some  lone  day, 
The  gentle  mistress  looks  my  way 
And  softly  says,  "  Now  I  shall  see 
What's  going  on  in  Arcady!" 
Then  I'll  rejoice  that  I'm  a  book 
At  which  my  lady  deigns  to  look. 


98 


ENVOY 

THE   SHEPHERD   TO   HIS   FLOCK 

THE  sun  is  warm  upon  the  ridges  now ; 

The  way  was  rough  and  steep  ; 
I'll  seek  the  shelter  of  a  leafy  bough 

And  watch  my  grazing  sheep. 
The  smoke  is  rising  from  the  valley  there, 

The  hum  of  wheels  and  trade ; 
The  stress  of  life  is  in  the  whirling  air 

While  I  pipe  in  the  shade. 
Where  work  is  fierce  amid  the  striving  throng 

And  music's  voice  is  mute, 
Some  one  may  catch  the  echo  of  a  song — 

The  faint  note  of  a  lute. 


99 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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